these scripted dreams . / castor, tamron day 8

castor karmichael --

Pain split across her forehead. It didn’t reach far enough to cut the strings of her eyepatch, but rivulets of blood dripped into her other eye. In her half-blind world, one side was black and the other dyed red. She wiped it away with one hand, a waxy grimace drawn across her fatigued face. She knew she was already pale from the previous day’s troubles. Pain had been etched into her very being; her chest ached from a broken collar bone and a gaping wound between her breasts. Her right foot was bandaged yet still swollen from fractured bones. Her left ear had been chipped away – a half blind world and a half deaf world. Sounds still scurried in small echoes on her left side, but it was dizzying. Her left side was a blind spot through and through.

”That wasn’t very nice,” he said. Who was in the worst position here?

She hurriedly wiped more blood away from her forehead. The wound was a harsh sting, and among the rest of her aches it was added torment to her sanity. Nothing would compare to the day her eye was torn from her socket, but today was a worthy obstacle. She didn’t want to breathe or move, let alone swing a heavy sword at someone who could probably crush her neck with one grasp.

She didn’t even know his name. Was it worth anything to ask? Days and days of nameless faces rising to the stars. They all had families and special memories to be cherished, yet she had only bothered to remember a select few. Was that her own carelessness at fault? There were fifty-something strangers to account for. She had been too focused on Jano to think of anything but herself and her own misery. Was that selfish, or simply human?

”My name’s Castor,” she replied meekly. Remember me. Her throat was scratched dry, tongue like sandpaper. She was surprised that she could muster any energy at all to speak or fight, but that was instinct. Survive at all costs, even if I don’t want to.

”Do you expect anything to be nice here?”

Everything innocent and pure was gone. Nothing felt worth protecting anymore. Asriel had been devoured by gluttonous mutations, Jano had been brutally stabbed by their own psychopathic ally, Eszter had fallen to another flock of tributes the day after. Now Elettra was slain, head crushed by the oh-so elegant Salome. Castor didn’t know if that girl was sane or not, but it didn’t matter. She hoped to never meet her again, especially on the battlefield.

There would be nothing “nice” about this next encounter. She would either win or lose, live or die. Perhaps death was the superior option – a release from this dreaded life. But death didn’t come easy. Instincts screamed for her to live, even if she had nothing to live for.

The world spun, but she stepped on her broken foot and carried on.

[ table by rave]

castor karmichael --

Good things. She counted them. One for the angel that was Ellise, innocent and mindless. Too young to face a brutal death, but the world defied fairness anyhow. Two for Jano, her other half. Determined, smart, loyal, a bit self-destructive, but he was everything. She dragged him down with her, and she regretted every second of it. Self-loathing would be her new forte.

Three for Asriel, a poor lost boy who didn’t deserve what happened to him. I’m sorry you were scared, and I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.

Four for Eszter. Headstrong and ferocious, she was a force to be reckoned with. Battle proved to be too overwhelming, however. Her life was stolen before Castor could truly know her, but she admired her nonetheless.

She had one more head to count – five for Elettra. She hoped the loving girl and her twin could rest peacefully, if such a feat were possible.

So many good things found, and all of them lost.

”I don’t think you’re one of them,” he said. She could be, but not today.

”I’m not.”

His touch was deadly. She ducked and tasted blood in her mouth, throat ripping open at whim of his blade. For a moment she expected the breath to catch in her throat, for blood to flood her lungs. Instead, she felt the immeasurable sting of an open wound and felt a river of warmth drip down to her collar. When she pressed a hand to the split flesh, it was pouring but not deep enough to kill. Another close call. Death taunted at every turn, it seemed.

She still managed to speak. ”I found good things too,” she said, ”They’re all gone now.”

She desperately wanted them back.

[ table by rave]

castor karmichael --

Tamron. Where had she heard that name before? Perhaps he was another famous family member of a past tribute. She could never keep track of it all – one lone radio in the corner of their treehouse was all they could afford or use. They could listen to the Games and all of the Capitol’s obnoxious updates, but she hadn’t bothered to remember names. Victory tours were lost on her; she would rather spend her time gathering resources and surviving. Those years marked the most difficult, yet the most liberating. Now they were nearly forgotten. Everything crashed and burned and the one person she shared those memories with was gone.

She would be gone soon too. There was no questioning human instincts anymore. She was too exhausted, and in survival of the fittest she was no longer fit for anything.

”You think there’s anything good left in the world?”

When she imagined the future, it was bleak and black. She imagined the world void of happiness. Was there truly anything good left? Not for her. Maybe for others there was hope. There had to be good things left in the world. Families, twins, people like her without the suffering and turmoil. She had to think of them. Faceless names, yet they existed somewhere.

”Maybe, but not for me.”

She had to be honest.

The wound on her chest split wide open again, stitches snapping apart to gape at the sun. Her vision blurred. Death was not taunting her – he was welcoming her. Resist. Maybe it was time.

Think of them. The families.

Fight for them.

[ table by rave]